Life Is a Gift: The Zen of Bennett

by Tony Bennett

  Basie had borrowed some money from Levy, and rather than recouping the advance out of Basie’s royalties, Levy simply put Basie on payroll at a fraction of what he should have earned, which was a real injustice. For all of his brilliant work, Basie was just paid a flat fee. Levy said that he would release Basie to allow him to record with me for Columbia as long as we would also do a record for the Roulette label.

  I didn’t meet Count Basie in person until we started rehearsing. We got along right off the bat; it was as if we’d been good friends for years. At one point Basie told his band, “Anything Tony wants, he gets!”

  Making those two albums, which included songs such as “Growing Pains,” “Chicago,” and “Anything Goes,” kick-started my enduring friendship with Count Basie. We performed together for the next twenty-plus years and spent time with each other whenever we could. I used to bring loads of musician friends home with me, and one night my wife at the time woke up and went into the living room to find Bill Basie and all the members of his orchestra hanging out. Those were wonderful moments, and working with Basie was one of the highlights of my entire life. It reinforced my sense that I had to stick to my artistic guns and insist on doing jazz. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have gotten to know one of the most important people in my life, and those albums never would have come into being. Interestingly enough, that album was ahead of its time, and amazingly, I was the first white performer to sing with the Basie Band.

  It is very important for me to really know who my friends are, and whom I can count on. Sometimes in this business, this is an extremely hard task, because everyone seems to want something from you. But I never believed in having an entourage, and I have worked hard to keep myself clear of that pitfall, as it only tends to cloud your judgment. Surrounding myself with those who are tried and true keeps me centered. I value loyalty, and I hold dear the meaning of true friendship.

  The Zen of Bennett

  When you choose your friends, realize that you are also choosing your teachers.

  Proper involvement is friendship that is based on warmth of feeling and mutual respect.

  The definition of a true friend is someone who is happy for your success.

  No man is an island; you can’t go it alone. Friends are there to celebrate the good times with you, and to help you through the dark times.

  Good friends bring out the best qualities in one another.

  The wisest man relies upon the counsel of his close friends.

  Count Basie Band

  Fred Astaire

  4

  Learn What to Leave Out

  After years of performing, I’ve realized that it’s not how many notes you’re playing that counts, but how you play them. Or, as Louis Armstrong would say, “It’s not whatchya do, it’s how you do it.” It’s very important to know what to leave out, accenting what remains—whether you’re talking about singing, painting, or just about anything you do. In almost anything, less is truly more.

  It’s more than just how I sing a song to an audience that gets a good reaction. Many times the order in which I sing the songs makes all the difference. I read the audience and can decide, based on their reaction, whether to skip a song or add another. Or I might have to move a song that’s at the beginning of the show to the end. It’s amazing how sometimes, by putting a number into another section, you can make a song a showstopper. But in a different place in the set, that same song is just another melody. For me, it’s always a matter of trying to arrive at a pacing that’s just right for the listener; knowing what to omit so you don’t stay out onstage too long.

  When I was younger, I would open up with a real hot number like “From This Moment On.” I would go out and hit the stage full force, and the band would be wailing. After that number, I thought I would have the audience in the palm of my hand, but when the song was over, I wasn’t getting the reaction I felt I should. I remember talking to Basie about it. He looked up at me with those big bright eyes of his and said, “Never open with a closer.”

  Basie went on to explain that at the beginning of a show, the audience is just walking in, finding their seats, and getting comfortable; they’re checking you out. He said that I should stay there right with them and open with something mellow. For the next song I could pick it up a bit, and by the third, I should do a ballad. Then it would be time to hit them with swinging tunes. He told me to save that highly energetic tune for last. And, boy, was he right. The next night I did as he suggested, and the audience went crazy.

  So in addition to learning not to overstay my welcome, I also learned about pacing. No one knew better than Bill how to do it right. He had a pure instinct as to what to leave out, and what worked on an emotional level.

  Basie just got it. He understood pacing, balance, and how to give the audience what they wanted. Basie told me to focus on the singing and not to talk too much, but to make sure I put a little humor in the set—that it will get them every time. And with his advice always at the front of my mind, I continue to try to do the unexpected, so my set never gets old or boring. By the time the night is over, I want my audience to feel satisfied—and when they feel that way, I feel good.

  It took me a while to learn how to edit myself. It’s one of the toughest chores to get right. In the first year of my recording career, I released eight singles, but none of them broke through on a national level. By spring of the following year, I was told that I would be dropped from Columbia if I didn’t have a hit soon. Percy Faith was my arranger-conductor, and I went to see him in his office to discuss what to do.

  “The time has come, Tony,” Percy said to me. “You really have to deliver now. And we just have three songs; we need one more.” I poked through some music on his desk and picked up a sheet. “Why don’t I do this?” I said. The song turned out to be “Because of You.”

  “Because of You” was released at a time when Columbia had totally lost its belief that I would be able to break out. The song didn’t get on the radio immediately, but despite that, people started to play it on jukeboxes. A tune didn’t normally become popular before it got airplay, but in this case, that’s what happened. After listening to it on jukeboxes, people started calling radio stations and requesting it.

  The song reached number one on Billboard’s charts and stayed in that position for ten weeks. It remained on the charts for a total of thirty-two weeks in a row. Finally I had my first big hit. The record wound up selling a million copies, and I was put on the cover of Billboard, which was a big boost for my career.

  In a way, everything is a matter of editing. No one is perfect; you can’t bat a thousand. So if you hear something you’ve done and it’s not right, just get rid of it. I remember talking with Fred Astaire after one of my shows at the Hollywood Bowl. Astaire was always a gentleman, and he would never overtly criticize anyone, but in this case he told me a story from which I gleaned valuable advice. He told me that whenever he worked on a new show, he would struggle hard to come up with the best batch of material he could find. Then, when he was happy with it, he would force himself to cut out fifteen minutes. “No matter how much you love what you’ve put together, doing that will tighten it up so you don’t stay on the stage too long,” he said. I caught his meaning, and from then on, I became my own worst critic. It made a big difference in my creative life to realize that it’s always good to leave people wanting more, as opposed to the other way around.

  It’s the same way with painting—after all, as I mentioned earlier, John Singer Sargent used only six colors. The Impressionist artists used brushstrokes to suggest; it was up to the viewer to fill in what was missing, just like when you sing in syncopation. You don’t have to emphasize every beat; the listener knows it’s there. By carefully editing your work, you wind up with the essence of your message.

  I’m always sketching, and I edit as I go along. My art teachers taught me not to show anybody work that isn’t finished; the artist should choose the best take, and the rest should be tossed. I’m st
ill working on determining when a song or painting is done; it seems I’m never really satisfied. But at a certain point, you have to stop asking yourself, “Have I got it right yet?” There are a lot of questions that can create feelings of insecurity. You can drive yourself crazy and become insecure, questioning whether something is perfect. You have to understand that at times you’re going to hit a bull’s-eye, and at other times you need to tear up your work and start all over again.

  Occasionally I take a trip to the warehouse where I store my paintings and review them with a fine eye. If there’s a painting I have any doubts about, I take a razor and rip it up. That way, I make sure that in the future, there is no chance I’ll be misrepresented. This takes a lot of discipline, but I take my work very seriously. I don’t want to leave behind anything that I’m not happy with. With a painting, I ask myself what’s not essential to the overall composition, and then I work to eliminate it. I always think: What can I take out? Then I leave in the one or two things that I feel make it interesting.

  In the fifties, Liberace ushered in the over-the-top performance. He was a master showman, and he was the first singer of his kind to play Madison Square Garden. He had been in smaller places with his candelabra and mink coat, but then he decided that he needed a larger venue. After he filled the Garden with his lavish stage production, all the suits at the record business wanted to jump on the bandwagon because they knew artists could make a lot of money by playing huge stadiums. Just like that, intimacy with the audience—in theaters where you could be very subtle and do magnificent things—went out the window. Everything became a quest to see who could fill the biggest arena. I feel that we lost a lot in terms of quality when artists started moving in this direction. Just because you’re playing to a large crowd, it doesn’t make you the best. My audiences have always responded to the sets that were well edited. Less truly is more, and by cutting back to the essentials and leaving in only the most outstanding part of your performance, you’ll wind up with your best possible work.

  The Zen of Bennett

  It’s very important to know what to leave out, thereby emphasizing what remains.

  Try to do the unexpected, so people are never bored.

  No one is perfect; you can’t bat a thousand. So if you do something that’s not right, just get rid of it.

  Keep in mind that the great artist John Singer Sargent used only six colors to create his masterpieces.

  By paring back to the essentials and leaving in only the most outstanding elements, you’ll wind up with your best possible work.

  The South of France

  5

  The Art of Excellence

  Most people know me as a singer; not many realize that I’m a painter as well. I have the same passion for my music and my art. I rarely consider the two mediums as anything other than the same outlet for my artistic expression. I never go anywhere without my paints, and I carry a small sketch pad with me wherever I go.

  The more I paint, the more I realize just how beautiful life around me is. I live in New York City, in a place overlooking Central Park, and I love it here because there’s nature right outside my window. I get to see the four seasons change every year, which is magnificent.

  The city is always vibrant and so alive. Everywhere you turn, there is so much that inspires me. In New York, I never run out of subjects to paint. This is my favorite place to live, over any other city on earth.

  When I walk out of my building, I feel inspired by everything that surrounds me. To me, even a taxicab or a traffic light can be beautiful. Like the tones of a song, the colors of the city are constantly changing. I try to capture those changes impressionistically, whether I’m working early in the morning inside the park, or doing a still life in my studio. I run into fellow painters and musicians in every capital of the world, but in New York, they are everywhere, and I’m proud to be part of the city’s artistic and musical scene.

  Rembrandt wrote that nature is the master; to me, she’s the boss. Experiencing nature and the change of seasons makes me happy and gives me a sense of perspective. We are born, we grow, and then we return to the earth; it’s the natural cycle of things. Every time I look at a beautiful tree in Central Park, or the sun setting over the Hudson River, I feel a great sense of privilege. I learn everything from nature; I use her inspiration for my artwork, and I never take her glory for granted. There are miracles all around us every day.

  It’s not surprising, then, that one of my favorite songs is “The World Is Full of Beautiful Things,” by Leslie Bricusse, from the film Dr. Dolittle. The lyrics speak to me because I feel that I have seen many beautiful things, and I’m trying to replicate on canvas the pleasure I get from the beauty all around me.

  I would describe myself as a perpetual student of art. I’m lucky because I travel all over the world when I tour, so I use the opportunity when I’m in various cities to visit the fabulous museums. I study the techniques of the great masters and try to apply them to my own work. In many ways, art is the same game as music—line, form, balance; how to edit it, and how to make it all come together. You don’t just go out in the morning and say that you’re going to do a painting. It’s like fishing; you have to get lucky and hope that you get one.

  I paint every single day; I literally have no choice in the matter. It sustains me. When I’m traveling, I have my watercolors with me. If I see something interesting, I try to paint it, or at least sketch it. You have to know how to draw well in order to be able to paint. And the more you sketch, the better you will paint. It relaxes me, too; if I’m stuck in traffic on my way somewhere, I’ll start drawing and forget where I am. My paintings and drawings have become my visual journal; a diary of sorts, of my life.

  Usually I’m working on three paintings at once, so I don’t get burned out on any one piece. If I feel myself reaching that point, I turn to my music. Alternating between the two gives me a little lift, all the time.

  When I approach a canvas, I want to know how I can convey what I’m feeling to the person who’s looking at it. I really believe that art should be done with emotion—if it’s done with feeling, it communicates more than any other medium. I want to get through to the people who look at my paintings. I use my passion to express myself in every piece of art that I create.

  I had been interested in art since I was very young, but after my father died, I was frequently left on my own in the afternoons after school while my mother was working. That’s when drawing became very important to me. I’d spend hours trying to get a picture exactly right.

  One day as a kid I was drawing a Thanksgiving mural on the sidewalk with some chalks my mom had given me. I was so focused on the picture that I didn’t see a man come up from behind to watch what I was doing. “You draw very well,” he said. “Keep it up; your work shows promise.” It turned out he was an art teacher named James MacWhinney, who lived in our building. From that moment on, he taught me everything he knew about watercolors and oil painting. Even now, whenever I start to paint or draw, I can still feel his influence and the joy he instilled in me. He’s the person to whom I attribute my lifelong devotion to the arts.

  When I was a teenager, a friend suggested that I apply to the High School of Industrial Arts, since I had applied to the High School of Music and Art but didn’t get in. At the time, Industrial Arts was a new school with an emphasis on commercial art. I took his advice, and the experience at the school was good for me.

  Fifty years later, I met Everett Kinstler, the renowned portrait artist. It turned out we had both attended Industrial Arts at the same time. The evening we met, he told me he’d been given a scholarship to Music and Art. However, on the very first day of class, the teacher had told him, “I want you to paint what you feel.” Everett said, “I’m only fourteen; I have no idea how I feel. I want to learn technique before I can even begin to do that.” He left the school and switched to Industrial Arts, where he got the education he felt he needed.

  Everett helped me see th
at Industrial Arts, with classes in everything from watercolors to photography to advertising, gave kids the chance to master all sorts of technical skills so they could pursue a wide variety of careers. Whenever I have a creative dilemma, I always think about what I learned there. Sometimes when I’m working on a painting for hours and feel that I’m not making any progress, I go back to the basics they taught.

  Everett taught me that by observing how a painting was created, you can better understand why it is good. I keep this in mind when I view art in museums. I get really close and try to note the artist’s technique. When I look at Rembrandt’s work, I see the way he left things unfinished. Early on in his career, Rembrandt was criticized for leaving out details. He really was the first Impressionist, two hundred years before actual Impressionism—he was that far ahead of his time. And in the last quarter of his life, when he left even more to the imagination, his paintings became better and better.

  Rembrandt is one of my strongest artistic influences; I can stare at his paintings for hours on end. His self-portrait that hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City has always been one of my favorites. I’ve been coming to the Met ever since I was a child because my school was right down the road, and I still haven’t seen everything this museum has to offer. That’s how much art is in there.

  What’s wonderful about Rembrandt’s self-portrait is that as you’re looking at him, he’s also looking back at you. To me, he’s saying, “Okay now, you know me; but who are you?” You’ll never forget him because his portrait is so completely honest and perfectly true to life; his face is so alive. No one else has ever painted the way he was able to. I have seven books of Rembrandt’s sketches, and every one of those sketches has soul.